


Escaping the Void

by shakespeareaddict



Series: The All-Consuming Fire [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Bondage, But Holmes doesn't know that, Fairly non-explicit porn, Holmes has a big brain, Holmes has problems, Holmes has problems with his brain, Holmes has serious issues, Holmes suffers from Sensory Overload, Holmes thinks a lot, Imagery is important in this fic, M/M, POV Third Person Limited, Riding Crop, Watson is a Dom, Watson isn't really sadistic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 18:39:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shakespeareaddict/pseuds/shakespeareaddict
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the spinning of the wheels in his head get too much for Holmes, and he needs someone--something--to shut it out. That something is this: Watson, overpowering him, ordering him, dominating him. Hurting him.</p>
<p>He's never had someone who would be willing to tear him apart one moment, then stitch him back up the next, never someone like Watson. And Holmes will accept whatever pain is necessary to keep his Watson from slipping away for good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Escaping the Void

**Author's Note:**

> Continuation, obviously, of "He Dares Not Confess", though this can stand on its own. Didn't edit it as much as I wanted to; may or may not go back later and fix things.
> 
> Warning: Holmes and Watson don't have a safeword, which is More Than A Bit Not Good. This Holmes also probably would never use it anyway, if he thought Watson wanted something. Holmes has some pretty bad ideas about subjecting himself to pain, even when he doesn't want it, so he can keep Watson by his side; again, a very bad thing that you shouldn't do in real life. If any of these things are triggers or disturbing for you, please turn back now.

Watson has the riding crop in his hands, and he’s using it to glorious effect, whipping out all of the cluttered thoughts that threaten to send Holmes into a frenzy.

His hands are tied above him, to the headboard of his sturdy bed. In the past, whenever they had any sort of sex, they retired to Watson's room. Since  _this_  became the only sex they have, Holmes doesn't think they've ever been in his room. He’s not sure who first suggested it become the permanent venue, or if there was ever any concious decision-making, but he doesn’t like feeling like he must choose between getting a decent sleep and avoiding Watson, and Watson doesn’t like making him feel that way, and that is one of the many blessings of Watson. This way, if (when, after these sorts of sessions) he needs to be alone, he can retire (run away) to his own room, and pretend he is doing something useful, when in fact all he does is sit and try not to fall to pieces over the train wreck they have become. There has never been any sort of advantage in crying over what might have been, or what once was, and there never will be, he knows, so he tries not to cry over this.

But tonight, for one reason or another, he had pulled Watson into his room instead. His night table is still well-stocked with the sorts of things one needs for this, and the riding crop usually rests here, above the fireplace. It was no great difficulty in that regard, even though he strongly suspects he will come to regret it later.

Suddenly the whip falls again, and all thoughts of exact venue and comparing the two fly away, leaving him with one less thing to think about, one step closer to silence.

Excluding certain specific times, there are always a thousand questions buzzing in his mind. Most of the time it is a good thing, a thousand bright puzzles to work out, bit by bit, until each and every one of them has given up their secrets, and then he can begin again with new puzzles, new problems. Other times it is less so. Some lines of inquiry do not end with satisfaction, but with traps that hold him, stuck in that vein of thought, for a very long time. Other questions hit him like brick walls from the first, painful, unrelenting, and he reels after slamming into them.

And sometimes, all the questions, all the answerless problems, all that is not yet solved but looks to have a grim solution indeed, or none whatsoever, combine and form a darkness, a black smear upon a white page, a void, until it is like he is falling up into the awful, endless gap between stars, fighting to reach those bright points of inspiration and hope but always slipping before he can even get close—

He shouts when the next blow comes, disorienting him momentarily. For one second he is suspended above the void and can see the lights of the universe spread out all around him (and as much as he abhors stagnation, it is beautiful to stay here, like this), before he is falling again, into the pit like hell below. Without even realizing it he whimpers at the loss of peace, and Watson reacts.

One benefit to the persistence of his senses is that they have by now identified Watson as immensly important, and so whenever he does something Holmes is not expecting, the relevant information is given a higher priority than the normal drivel which everyday life produces, and it floats above the useless things like oil on water. Another is that when it is his _senses_ that trap him, and not his mind, Watson can almost immediately bring him away from whatever small thing it is that he is stuck on. Additionally, whenever Watson performs this... _task..._ there is a much higher success rate, compared to a nameless employee of a "gentlemen's club" or a rough dockside worker. He would calculate the exact percentage, but Watson is considering his next move, and that is far more interesting. Suffice it to say that there are very few times when this treatment does not alleviate the symptoms if not the disease.

He concentrates on every shift of his biographer, deducing from sound, smell, and a wealth of prior knowledge. Muted footsteps on the rug, perfectly steady—the dodgy limp is gone completely as he circles the bed. A small clatter as he lays the whip down. The slide of wood on wood caused by opening a night table drawer, and more footsteps. Rustle of fabric—he is opening his trousers. This sends a thrill through him, so that he almost misses the slight dip of the bed as Watson climbs up, probably on his knees, still mostly clothed. He had removed his waistcoat and rolled up his shirtsleeves earlier, and, if previous encounters were anything to go by, he would not undress completely until they were done.

A whiff of Vaseline.

Fascinating.

Sometimes there is no preparation before he is breached. Sometimes there is only the bare minimum. Every now and then, there is so much he can only feel the lubricant, not Watson; the pressure, the weight of him, yes, that he can always feel, but actual skin? Not there, never there. There is a definite pattern to it, one he has not yet determined, but it exists. It must exist. His Watson is excellent at this, though you would never know from his prudish, genteel exterior. Who taught him how to inflict pain so well, or has he always had a predilection for this? It’s clear he has a sadistic streak a mile wide; why else would he agree to these sessions? But how did he become so twisted? A pattern would give him the answer, he knows it, and this is the one question he does not want driven out, because if he can solve the mystery of the who and the how and the why of his Boswell, his doctor-soldier, he can keep him.

Ever since that awful night where he didn’t obey Watson’s demands, there has been a distance between them, only gone when they are here and Watson makes even more demands of him. Ergo, that part of their relationship where they act as if what they have is not twisted even by an invert’s standards is no more. Watson will still ensure he is not fatally injured, but any pretense of affection or—dare he say _love_? Dare he even admit in his own mind that he had hoped for and thought of love? (Still hopes for, still thinks of it.)—has been dropped.

Question: How, then, will he keep Watson by his side for good? Hypothesis: Continue these sessions, even when not required. Obey him always. Be submissive, prepared, perfect for Watson. He will stay, and he would rather have this, a pain he has grown used to, than nothing, the loneliness he has never gotten the hang of, especially now that he has met Watson and knows what it is he will be missing.

The bed dips further behind him, heralding Watson's approach, and he relaxes all his muscles, waiting to be filled again. It’s its own kind of perfection, the act of being filled or filling someone else up, especially when his Watson is involved. Suddenly everything clicks (for him, at least), and he knows, he _knows_ they are supposed to remain like this, close and intertwined, for the rest of their lives, sharing everything. Why else would it feel so natural to be with Watson at any hour, why else would they fit together so well, if it was not part of some benevolent Being's plan for them to love and be loved by one another?

But then it is over and Watson pulls out, or he pulls out, and they are alone and he is cold and he’s not certain of this fact any more, and he goes to his room and tries not to cry.

In the present, he expects to be pulled up to his knees, or for Watson to yank his legs apart and lay between them. He is not expecting Watson to grab him by the hips and spin him round, twisting the rope on his wrists uncomfortably, so he is flat on his back. He is surprised when his doctor then pushes his prepared cock inside all the way, not waiting for him to adjust before setting up a brutal pace.

He shouts again, and the only thing in his entire world is Watson and what Watson has done to him and what he is doing to him now. There is the burn of the rope as he writhes, the scratch of his partner’s shirt fabric on his balls, the movement inside him, the hands that pull his legs apart and tug at his nipples, the mouth that bites at his knee and thigh. He almost forgets to be sad that, here, “partner” will never be replaced with “lover”, the glory of sensation wiping his mind clean, and puts his trust in the man above him. Watson does take care of him, and he will always make sure he is alright in the end.

( _Always_ _?_ asks a sardonic part of his mind, conjuring up an image of that awful night, weeks ago.  _Always? He left you lying there a half-dozen times after getting his pleasure from you, each time ordering you not to come. He made you suffer. He_ wanted _you to suffer. And you, desperate for his approval, lay like a whore each time and took it._

_He didn't mean it_ , thinks another, but he is uncertain. He doesn't know, and all his deductive powers fail him in this, the greatest case he has ever had, the case that always comes up again, the case of John Watson, M.D.  _He would have let me come if I had been able to obey. He wouldn't have let me suffer for that much longer._

_Then why did he let you suffer at all? And why did you take it? Are you so useless that you need affection from a common cripple to make you feel worthwhile? You were better than this, once._

_He's not a cripple,_ he thinks,  _not common, not even close. And I needed it, I needed peace, and he gives me peace._

_Peace! Fah!_ The jibes come faster now, sharper.  _You shouldn't have to rely on anyone for_ peace _. You are weak, and despicable, and now he knows it. He only wants you because you scream so prettily. It won't be long before even this useless doctor leaves, and then where will you be?_

He has no answer to this.)

Watson moves faster in him, and he moans. He wants to come, but he’s not sure if he’s allowed to yet, doesn't want a repeat of that awful night, and so he holds it in as best he can. If Watson doesn’t want him to come yet, then he won't. It is as simple as that.

Watson has a funny look in his eyes. He isn’t sure if he should be concerned about that look; Watson has so many unusual looks just for him. Before he can decide, Watson is touching him—he has his cock in hand, finally—and it doesn’t matter. John is still John, and he’s saying things to him, things he should listen to if he can. He wants,  _needs_ to make Watson happy, if he's going to keep him for as long as he can.

Watson says “Come on, luv”. He does.

So does John.

It is bliss.

For a few minutes he’s not aware of much, just that John is moving. He is almost certain John is cleaning him up, the way he always does. He wishes John would, just once, stay inside him and hold him close. He wouldn’t mind the mess in the morning; they could clean it up together. But John always comes back and holds him, anyway, which is better than leaving. Other people used to do this to him, people he didn't know, people he couldn’t trust, and most of them would leave afterwards. John should never leave.

This is a very important thought, and he holds it close, letting everything else drift along slowly. It is very quiet inside his mind, and John made it quiet. It’s nice, especially now that John is putting him under the duvet and holding him. He doesn’t even mind that his wrists and other parts of him are sore.

All the buzzing thoughts of mere minutes ago, even the argument he had been having with himself, are gone. He can barely even remember that they exist, and he is almost certain he won't remember this peace in the morning. It makes him sad, until John seems to read his sadness and comes closer, humming a gentle lullaby in his ear. He recognizes the tune; John usually hums to him like this. Odd, how memories of what things are like after they are finished only resurface after they are finished. It is very close to silent in his head. It is all he will be able to recall tomorrow, but that is fine. He'll get this peace again, sooner or later. (The thought of John not being there to give him this peace again never crosses his mind.) Right now, he could fall asleep like this, the way he has, many times before.

But no, there’s something he must tell John first. He wriggles around until he can look John in the eye. John is immediately concerned. "What's wrong?" he asks, adjusting for this shift in position.

“John,” he says, then stops, not sure how to explain it. All the other words have left him, because they weren’t important enough at the time, and he is left with only an impression of an idea. How to explain it?

John smiles at him, a little sad but mostly playful—teasing. “Yes, that’s me.”

“ _John_ ,” he insists, trying to convey it through tone alone. Then he has a flash of inspiration. He fumbles for John’s hand and clasps it, then lifts his hand so John can see.

John has a look of concentration on his face. “I don’t understand.”

He points at John with his free hand—pokes him in the chest, in fact, and says again, “John”. Then he points to himself. “Sher—“ Goodness, has he forgotten his own name? But John is nodding, he understands so far. Then he lifts their hands again. What was that word? He knew it, he did....Oh! That's it!

“Together.”

There. He’s said it. He lies back, content.

John is quiet for a bit. Maybe he’s thinking about what Sherlock has just said. But wait—what if John doesn’t agree?

He panics for a moment, then John holds him again, petting his hair. He calms down. If John thought it was a horrible idea, he would say so, and if he were upset that he said it, John would have already left.

Even if John doesn’t agree, he thinks, his mind so much closer to silence, he’s not upset. Maybe he can convince John later.

For now, he sleeps.


End file.
